I grew up poorer than most, better off than some, learning to cook for my family of 7 at a young age, 1970’s and ’80s American Midwestern casserole style. Every dish my mother cooked for us seemed to contain a pound of ground beef, a can of Campbell’s Condensed Soup, and a cheap starch.
“Goulash?” 1 lb ground beef, a bag of cooked elbow macaroni, canned corn, and a can of cream of tomato soup.
“Chow Mein”? 1 lb ground beef, cooked minute rice, canned mushrooms, soy sauce, and a can of cream of mushroom soup, with crunchy canned “chow mein noodles” on top.
I got married at 20 (do not recommend, especially if you’re a lesbian, don’t marry a man at 20) and my brother gave me Joy of Cooking by Irma S. Rombauer. It was my first idea that I could learn to cook differently from my mother, and make food to be proud of.
I read that cookbook start to finish, like a novel. I read each recipe, pictured each ingredient, imagined following every instruction and the taste of the finished dish. Then my autistic ass went on to read 500 more cookbooks (and counting).
I would switch obsessions and genres over the years as I read cookbook after cookbook – everything from scratch! Dressing up meals made from canned goods! Baking! Using this appliance or that! Vegetarian, vegan, low-carb, keto, whole foods, food combining, low fat, fussy and delicate, slop for a crowd, I read them all.
I love to cook. I’d say I’m really good at it now. Only I’m slow, because my executive functioning is so bad. Rachael Ray’s 30 Minute Meals were always a minimum of 2 hours for me, start to finish. I have other limitations. My income is only about 25% over the federal poverty level. I don’t have a car and am limited to what’s nearby.
And as an older autistic person, my overall ability is inconsistent depending on my stress level. Sometimes I can cook a veggie lasagna completely from scratch including the bechamel; sometimes I can do nothing but navel gaze, drink Diet Coke, and weep. Those low-ability navelgazing times can extend for months where I struggle to face the prospect of anything but the most convenient foods: one step, open package and eat. These are times where I could use a caregiver. After all, I am diagnosed level 2 autistic with significant support needs.
But I don’t have that option available. So this blog is how I have learned to feed myself all the time, using what I have learned from the cookbooks I have read. I am not a nutritionist or chef or food scientist. Everything I write here comes from my own head, and are ideas I’m sharing freely, both to document my path and to hopefully help others who struggle with similar issues.